Victis Honor
by Jayne Foyer
Summary: Bruce takes Damian to a deserted island for some male bonding. In between emotional spats, cautious laughter, an awkward attempt at the Talk, and dead bodies found in underwater caves - there is someone on the island, hunting them. And Damian knows who she is. And why.
1. Danse

Dick was munching on toast at the breakfast table, a tablet before him, perusing an online shop. "See, I don't know," he said thoughtfully, glancing up at Alfred. "I just don't see myself in red. You know? Tim's Red Robin, Jay's Red Hood, like, honestly, I feel sort of like a minority in this household-"

Suddenly, the door leading from the Cave banged open and Damian, in full Robin gear, stomped angrily through the kitchen, glaring ahead silently. He opened another door, towards the stairs and his room, and slammed it behind him. Dick blinked, then looked up at Alfred.

"Somebody's moody," he said.

"Yes," said Alfred. "I presume Master Bruce broke the news to him, then."

"News?" asked Dick. "News of what?"

A few minutes later, Dick was clattering down the steps leading to the Cave. "Bruce," he called. "Bruce!"

Bruce was sitting before the computer, in civilian clothes, and he didn't turn around when Dick called him. "Yes?" he replied, as Dick reached the bottom of the steps and came to lean against the control panel beside Bruce.

There was a wide grin on Dick's face as he said, "So."

Bruce glanced at him. "Yes, Dick?" he repeated.

"You and Damian," said Dick. "And, like. The wilderness."

Bruce looked back at the screen. "Did he tell you?"

"No," replied Dick. "But I think he's upstairs right now screaming into his pillow." He chuckled, then said, "Alfred told me. How exciting, I didn't know you still did camping trips."

"I don't," said Bruce. "This is an extension of his training."

"You're going camping," said Dick, grinning. "No matter how you spin that, you're going out and setting up a campfire and sleeping under the stars. We haven't done that since I was a kid."

"You're not coming."

"OK," said Dick, shrugging. "I get that. Father-son bonding time. Wouldn't want to harsh your groove or cramp your style or anything." He grinned. "You have to take pictures. Are you bringing Titus? We brought Ace when we went, remember?"

"Dick," said Bruce, turning away from the computer. "I'm not sure you understand exactly what this is meant to be."

"I know," said Dick, nodding sagely, "totally, totally personal, you and Damian and the good ol' outdoors, I'm not trying to step on any toes. Ugh, I hope you're going fishing. Take pictures of him fishing. That would be priceless."

"I have the itinerary right here, if you'd like to take a look at it."

"Ah, you and your itineraries. We didn't have an itinerary when we went. Times change, I guess."

Bruce brought up a document on the computer and Dick turned around, reading it. After a few lines, his eyes narrowed slightly. After another moment or so of silence, he looked at Bruce, then back at the screen, then at Bruce again.

"Are you kidding me?" he asked incredulously. "This isn't camping."

"I just told you-"

"Cliff jumping? Underwater cave diving? You're pulling a freakin' Green Arrow and dropping yourselves on a deserted island!"

"Damian could use the-"

"The fun?"

"-the solitude."

"That's no fair," said Dick, hurt now. "The last time you did anything fun with me was years ago."

"That's not true."

"Yes, it is. We haven't gone on any cool trips since the Crisis, and even then, you were psychotic and Tim was mourning, so-"

"I sent you to Paris," countered Bruce. "And the DRC."

"Oh, wow," replied Dick sarcastically. "The Congo, my favorite place."

"To Nanda Parbat, for Damian."

"That was all on work stuff. I can't believe you would plan this without me."

"Dick, you are a grown man."

"So?"

"You could plan this for yourself if you wanted. And Damian needs this very much."

"He doesn't want to go. He's throwing a tantrum, he doesn't want to go so bad. Screw him, I'll go with you."

Bruce let out a low sigh. "Dick," he said. "I don't have to tell you that there are a lot of things Damian and I need to communicate about."

"Oh, please. He's not ten anymore-"

Bruce held out a hand to silence him. "There are some…conversations we need to have, him and me, for which I think he needs some degree of privacy."

"Like wh-"

Dick stopped abruptly, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Conversations?" he asked.

Bruce nodded.

"Conversations involving…?"

Bruce bowed his head slightly. "Miss West, for example."

Dick said, "No. You're trapping him on an island with you for three days so you can give him the Talk?"

"As I understand," said Bruce stoically, "their relationship is very serious."

"That's not fair," protested Dick. "I wanted to have that conversation with him."

"Excuse me?"

"I did," insisted Dick, straightening up, arms folded. "I don't know, I thought – I mean, Robin dating the red-headed bombshell of the Teen Titans? That's kind of, like, my niche area of expertise, you know? Plus you and he don't talk about that kind of stuff, I thought it was my thing with him."

"That's exactly the point of this," said Bruce. "You're right; I don't speak to him about as much as I should. And although I understand your feelings, at the end of the day, I am his father, and-"

"Oh, no," said Dick with distaste. "Let's not start that 'I'm his real father' argument. Then we both end up just looking like jerks."

For a moment, Bruce said nothing. And then: "I want to do this with my son, Dick. Don't take it away from me. Or him."

Dick hesitated, then relented, letting out a frustrated sigh. "Fine," he said. "I guess. I have plenty of work to do here, anyway, especially if Batman and Robin are both going to be gone for a weekend." He stood there, bristling, then added, "But I'm not happy about it," and then stalked out of the Cave, heading upstairs.

Tim headed into the kitchen from the garage stairs, pulling off the motorcycle gloves, saying, "Good morning, Alfred," when one door opened and Dick headed across the room, visibly upset. "Hey, Dick," called Dick, but Dick ignored him, slamming the door shut behind him. Tim picked a banana from the fruit bowl and asked, "What's his problem?"

Alfred sighed. "Best if we leave that one alone, Master Timothy."

A few days later, Damian stood in the door of the training room, and said, "I'm going to the Tower."

"You need to be back here before dinner."

"I'm not going on patrol tonight."

"You still need to pack."

Damian stood in surly silence for a moment, and then said, "I can't believe you're making me do this."

"We leave at four AM," replied Bruce coolly, "whether or not you're ready. No electronics."

"That's just irresponsible," said Damian. "The world could end in three days, and we wouldn't know."

"The Justice League exists precisely to ensure that doesn't happen," answered Bruce.

"You trust that hive-minded gang of petty imbeciles far too much," said Damian. "You've been lulled into a false sense of security for it."

"I think," said Bruce, "the world will survive a weekend without us."

"You don't know that."

"I don't know if the world is still going to be here in the next ten minutes," said Bruce, stopping and looking at his son. "We're going, and that's final. Go on to the Tower, but be back before eight o'clock."

"Eight o'clock. Am I twelve years old?"

"You're certainly behaving like it."

Damian stared at him harshly. "I'll be back," he said, and he swept away. Bruce didn't move for a moment, then bowed his head slightly, already regretting his last comment.

The mini-jet – a present, from back when Bruce had tried to buy Damian's affections – landed at a defiant 8:14 PM, and Damian came angrily pounding up the steps a few minutes later. "You're late," said Bruce, as the boy passed Bruce's study, door open.

Damian swore at his father, and Bruce said his name, a gentle reprimand; Damian stopped at the door, rolling his eyes. "I apologize," he said roughly, and although the sincerity in his voice was unenthusiastic, it was not artificial. "That was out of line."

Neither of them moved for moment, then Bruce said, "Get your things packed. Dick said he'd like to see you before he goes out."

"Send him to my room."

"Don't be selfish."

"I'm not being selfish."

There was another silence. Then Bruce asked, "How is Miss West?"

Damian let out a disgusted grunt and headed to his room. Bruce didn't move, but a few minutes later, he heard his son reluctantly head downstairs again. "Dick," he called, and Bruce couldn't suppress a little smile.

While Damian was gone, Dick had come up searching for a heart-to-heart. He didn't quite get one, but they were at an understanding, at least. Damian needed this with his father, and, as Dick had said, "I'll be first in line to remind everybody – even you – hell, even myself – that youare his father."

Dick and Tim headed out together despite Tim's insistence that he really had to leave, had something to wrap up out of the country. Bruce stayed in the Batcave, working on a case, occasionally speaking to give direction to someone on the other line. Damian worked in the shop below the computer hub, thick magnifying lenses on his face.

As it got later and Bruce noticed the time, he glanced around, searching for his son. "Damian," he called.

Without looking up from his work, Damian replied, "Yes?"

"Go to bed. You need the sleep."

"I'll go to sleep when you do, old man."

Bruce considered this, then exited out of the programs on the computer. "Barbara," he said. "Keep an eye on Tim and Dick. I'll talk to you on Monday."

He veritably unplugged himself from the computer, removing all the cords and attachments he was managing, and then he stood up, stretching slightly.

"All right," he said, going down the few steps to where Damian worked, a light shining brightly onto the table. "I'm going."

Damian glanced up, annoyed. "Fine," he said. "I'm almost done."

Bruce waited. He peered down at the table. "What are you making?"

After a pause, Damian replied. "I'm not sure yet," he said. "My current earpiece has fallen out twice in the past year, and I was trying to design something more compact, but I fear I've all but lost sight of my original intention. It's a sort of…" he paused, then held it up to his ear. "This main device was meant to go here," he said, pointing to behind his ear, "and then a wire threaded through my ear to anchor it here."

"Why aren't you using our current designs?" murmured Bruce, touching the sketches and blueprints on the desk. "You'd have to encrypt your own communications with this. You could just use Oracle's network."

"Yes," admitted Damian, "well. That was sort of the point. I wanted a…personal communications link."

Bruce glanced at his son, then back at the designs. "For the Titans."

Damian gave a noncommittal shrug.

"Ah," he said. "For Miss West."

"You can call her Iris," said Damian. Bruce didn't look at him. "Or at least Miz West. That's how she writes her name. Miss denotes marital status, or in her case, a lack thereof."

Damian paused, blinking slightly, as if just realizing what he said.

"Anyway," he said hurriedly. "For Lian as well, I imagine. Arsenal, I mean. And Chris. Perhaps Milagro as well, if only to keep abreast of her developing powers."

"Don't get too suspicious of your teammates," said Bruce.

"I'm not suspicious," replied Damian matter-of-factly. "I simply don't like her."

Bruce allowed himself a tiny smile. "Have you packed?"

"Yes. Have you?"

"More than we could possibly need."

There was a pause. Damian took off his lenses, and started to put away his work. "This isn't a test, is it?" he asked. "You aren't going to drop me on the island and leave me for three days?"

"No," said Bruce. "I would not deceive you like that."

"Pity," said Damian. "I would much prefer that to the alternative."

"Approach it with an open mind. Maybe you'll enjoy yourself."

To Bruce's surprise, Damian didn't immediately protest this. "Maybe," he said. "But you should understand – and I don't say this to hurt you," he continued, getting to his feet, collecting his blueprints, "but I would much rather be with the Titans. I can't help expressing that, no matter how it sounds. But it doesn't come from a place of anger towards, you know, you, but from a place of longing for them." He looked at his father uncertainly. "You understand?"

"I think I do," answered Bruce. "Better than you give me credit for, in any case."

Damian let out a heavy, dramatic sigh, and headed up the stairs, Bruce behind him. "Father," he said. "If you want to talk to me, you don't need to corner me alone on an island to do it."

Bruce didn't reply right away. Then he asked, "Did Dick say something to you?"

"Only the usual," said Damian, as they reached warmth of the inside of the Manor. "He seemed envious."

"He thinks I spoil you."

"You do."

Bruce gave his son a conspiratorial smile. "Keep denying it. His growing paranoia is entirely entertaining."

Damian chuckled, his socks padding on the polished wooden floorboards as they headed up to their respective rooms. "He is breathtakingly easy to manipulate."

"He'll never catch on."

"It's funny," said Damian, "that this particularly insidious brand of evil comes from your side of the family, not my mother's."

"Believe me," said Bruce, "you are certainly your mother's son. Goodnight, boy."

"Goodnight."

Damian stood outside of his door as Bruce continued down the hall, to his own room. For a moment, there was silence, and then Bruce opened his door again and stepped out. "Damian," he said. Damian looked up at him, still standing outside his own room. Bruce was watching him, a concerned crease on his brow. "I didn't mean that."

"No," said Damian. "It's all right."

Bruce looked at him for another moment, then nodded. "Four AM."

"Sleep well."

Bruce nodded and retreated back into his room. Damian stood there for a moment, his fingertips brushing his doorknob. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against his door, unmoving for a few minutes, then opened the door and went inside.

They parachuted into the island; it was smaller and craggier than Damian had anticipated, with less jungle and more harsh, rocky cliffs, but if nothing else, it was certainly abandoned. "Where are we?" asked Damian, unhooking his parachute, glancing around the wilderness.

"Pacific Ocean," answered Bruce. "Six hundred nautical miles from the closest landmass."

"Uncharted island?"

"Nineteen by eight miles, no human settlements. Pristine wilderness." He paused, then added, "I bought it."

Damian let out a bark of laughter. "Dick is right," he said, sliding down a hill, hefting supplies on his back, heading towards the ocean. "You spoil me rotten."

Quickly and with no instruction, Damian located the largest stretch of sandy beach, where Bruce had planned to set up camp. A ways offshore, there was a huge rock, too small and bare to be considered an island, covered in guano. Damian dropped his small pack of supplies, then peered up at the cloudless sky. "I don't think any advanced form of shelter will be necessary," he said. "There's no need, really, unless a storm hits. It's very warm here. Not like Gotham heat, it's much more…" Damian paused, searching for a word, "…fresh."

Bruce pulled a bottle of water from his pack and offered it to Damian. The boy looked at it with disdain.

"That's cheating," he said. "I'll gather my own freshwater."

Bruce shrugged, and took a drink of the water. "Today we set up camp," he said. "Collect food, scout the island. Tomorrow we have plans."

"I don't like how mysterious that sounds. You're not staging an assault, or something?"

"I offered to show you the itinerary many times."

"I didn't care to look."

"If you had-"

"I still don't. I prefer the challenge of being potentially unprepared."

Damian turned back to inspect the green edge of the jungle behind them. "We have supplies for a solar still," he said thoughtfully. "Using fire would be quicker." He considered this, then said, "I'll gather firewood. You set up anything you need here. I'll be back soon."

Without another word, Damian headed away, into the palm trees and thickly organic soil beyond the beach. Bruce watched him leave, pleased at how quickly Damian seemed to be taking to the excursion. Perhaps it wouldn't be as difficult as he'd anticipated.

A few hours later, they were standing in shallow water, backs smeared with coconut oil to protect against the sun, holding primitive spears with hand-fashioned arrowheads on the end. Damian's hands were bandaged slightly, but his arrowhead was noticeably sharper than his father's, so he didn't complain. They were standing still around beds of coral, shoals of fish writhing beneath them in huge numbers, their ecosystem bolstered by the fertile source of guano on the huge, bare rock less than half a mile out. Bruce jabbed his spear into the water slowly and methodically, whereas Damian did so with more speed, casually slicing into the water.

"Father," said Damian, looking at his spear.

Bruce didn't turn around, but said, "Yes?"

"Do I have a metagene?"

Bruce didn't answer right away. "Why do you ask?"

Damian looked at his father, then threw his spear to the shore; it stuck perfectly into the sand. He looked back down at the water, then plucked a fish out of the water with his bare hands. He looked at it, and then he said, "I'm very fast. And stronger than…than anyone I know, really. I thought Lian or Sin, Sin in particular, would be at least my match, but…" he trailed off. "I feel like there's something different about me," he said, looking at the fish struggling in his hands. He knelt down in the water, put his hands below the surface, and released the fish. "Something beyond the obvious. Something inside my skin."

Bruce didn't look at his son, but he knelt down as well, digging into the sand beneath the clear water, revealing a small, smooth rock. "The short answer," he said, straightening up, rock in hand, "is no."

"Short answer?" asked Damian, rubbing some algae off rocks below him; a number of much smaller fish began swarming around him, consuming the loose plant matter. "Is there a longer answer?"

"Neither your mother nor I possess a metagene," said Bruce, tossing the flat rock out across the ocean, watching it skip away. "Not even carriers. Most of the…difference between you and other people comes from your training. From birth you've been honed to be the perfect warrior. You know that."

Damian didn't reply immediately, still surrounded by tiny fish. "Honed," he said. "Like a weapon."

Bruce finally turned around to glance at his son. "I didn't mean-"

"If you don't think I've already come to terms with that part of me," said Damian loudly, cutting off his father's words, "then I doubt you know me as well as you think you do." He paused, then added, "I'm not so deeply in denial that I can't tell the difference between the way you treat me and the way my mother did. There's no way I can resent you for this, so please, don't try to apologize." He paused again, watching the fish swim about his knees. "Are you sure about the metagene?"

"We did genetic testing when you first came," said Bruce.

"You were only looking for paternity, then."

Bruce bowed his head, not denying it. "I have since reviewed the results. Your genetic code is…enhanced. That much is true. But your mother did not insert an absent gene."

"How enhanced?" asked Damian. "This is information you should have made available to me a long time ago. Isn't it? If my body is capable of more, genetically, then I should be training to-"

"Damian," said Bruce. His son looked up at him. "You're human," he said. "And you know very well what you're capable of."

Damian watched his father for a few moments, then nodded, looking back at the fish. "I do," he said. "I'm not proud of it."

"You should be," said Bruce. "Your strength isn't as bad as you believe it must be."

Damian didn't answer, then he let out a little, "Tt," and turned back towards the shore. "I heard Green Arrow constructed a bow from a boar's tendon. Are there wild boars on this island?"

Bruce called after him, "I thought you objected to hunting animals."

"No. I object to eating animals. Killing them," he said, his voice laced with hurt, "I do with pride."

He tore his spear out of the sand as he reached the beach, and Bruce stood there in the water, unmoving.

That night, after a successful boar hunt, a meal of its meat and of solely fish for Damian, and the gathering of edible fruit, they settled on the beach under the stars, a fire between them. Damian was still fashioning a bow, although he was beginning to realize that it might not be possible to even complete it before they left.

They had spoken little more than necessary since their conversation while fishing earlier that morning. As they lay in silence, except for Damian's steady hands on his bow, Bruce watched the constellations above them. The sounds of Damian shaping the bow ceased, and Bruce thought perhaps they were both watching the same star.

Damian said, "I have a question to ask you."

"Yes?"

"This is something I've thought about much, in the past few years."

"Why have you never asked before?"

Damian hesitated. "You may not consider it…appropriate."

Bruce didn't move. "What's this about?"

There was nothing, and then Damian asked said, "My mother. I want to know why you never hunted her down."

Silence.

"You never punished her. I've seen you break bones of men and women who abused their children. I only wonder why my mother is the exception."

Bruce didn't answer.

"I suppose I know why," added Damian. "I know how you feel about her, and I know that you once loved her. I love her too. Just because I love one of you doesn't mean I hate the other. That's what Dick thinks. But – you don't excuse anyone's actions simply because you love them. That would be a classic response to abuse, and I won't perpetuate it. I don't forgive her. I love her as my mother, but I do not forgive her."

He stopped abruptly, and Bruce could practically feel a wave of self-consciousness wash over the boy. Without looking at his son, Bruce said quietly, "You're absolutely right. I should have done more for you."

"Don't say should have," said Damian. "This is not an excuse for you to blame yourself. I've had quite enough of that since I came here." There was a silence, longer this time, then he said, his words quicker than usual, "I don't believe in regret. I believe in action. What use is it to dwell on my forgotten childhood?" He paused, glanced at his father. "I want to be able to protect the others."

"What others?"

"I was an experiment. A prototype. I'm sure there are others, other children grown in artificial wombs and biotubes, surely from herself and some other non-consensually gathered genetic material."

Bruce turned to look at his son. "Damian-"

"Here is my real question," said Damian, the words tumbling from his mouth. "The first night you ever saw me, you said you were drugged. You called my conception a depraved eugenics experiment. Is that true?"

Bruce didn't reply immediately. His voice pained, he said quietly, "I didn't realize you heard that."

"I've been pretending I didn't for six years. There are realities about my existence I don't want to acknowledge. But it kills me, you know." He stopped. His voice wavered slightly, a sign of weakness Bruce had not heard from his son in years. "It kills me to know what I have been since before birth. What I was represent to you."

Bruce said, "It's not true."

Damian didn't reply.

"You exist because of nothing more or less than my love for your mother," said Bruce. "I only said that to hurt her."

"Why?"

"Because she is a criminal, and I have long since divorced myself from any feelings I had for her."

A pause. "Apt choice of words."

Bruce looked back at the sky. "You were conceived like any other child, Damian. The product of two hearts molding, however briefly, into one."

"Euphemistic," noted Damian. "But I will believe you." He didn't say anything, then added, "I suppose that was the last time I was ever like any other child."

"I wouldn't say that. You remind me of your brothers more than you think."

Damian didn't answer right away. "I hope you're not insinuating any relation to Timothy Drake, because in that case-"

"I am," said Bruce. "He is my son. You are my son. You are brothers. You don't need to be blood to be family. I had hoped Dick taught you that."

"Dick doesn't consider himself my brother."

"Yes he does."

"No," said Damian. "He thinks he's my father."

There was silence.

"You are like all of them," said Bruce, ignoring Damian's words. "You have Dick's skill. Tim's mind. Jason's rage."

"Cassandra's past."

Bruce glanced at his son. "Not quite."

Damian didn't say anything.

"You remind me of Dick with the Titans," continued Bruce. "He was the same way. He wanted to be with them all the time. Particularly the alien."

"Alien?"

"The Tamaranean. They call her Starfire."

"I've heard of her."

Bruce hesitated, then he said, "He was with her…much like the same way you are about Miss West." The moment Bruce said this, the air between them seemed to go perfectly still.

"Miz West," said Damian, his tone instantly turning cold. "I see where this is going."

"You're young," said Bruce sincerely. "I just want to-"

"No," said Damian, putting aside the bow, lying down facing away from his father.

"It's important that you-"

"No," repeated Damian aggressively. "Goodnight, Father."

"Damian-"

"Goodnight."

Bruce relented, falling silent.

Damian woke before his father, in the dewy early morning, the fire smoldering between them. He rekindled it, then broke fast with some of his harvested water and fruit as Bruce awoke as well. "I assume," began Damian, as the sun touched the horizon, "there's nothing planned for today that requires a sense of urgency?"

"There are several things I'd like to show you," answered Bruce, stretching in the dawn. "But nothing we have to rush to accomplish."

"Good," said Damian, getting to his feet and stripping off his shirt. "I'm going for a swim."

He headed down the beach without another word, wading into the water, diving beneath the surface at hip-depth. Bruce stood and slowly stretched, watching his son. After almost an hour, barely still in sight, Damian stopped swimming; Bruce peered out in the early sunlight, reflected by the calm waters. Damian was lying in the water, facing the sky, unmoving. For a moment, Bruce's heart seemed to stop with fear, then the boy dipped into the water again, disappearing under for a few seconds, then popping up again and floating there limply again, gently rocked by the small swells.

After another few minutes, Damian swam back into shore, sand sticking to his feet and ankles as he walked up the beach to their campsite. He stretched his arms, glancing at his solar still regretfully. Bruce noticed, and tossed him a water bottle, from which he graciously drank.

"So," said Damian, handing the bottle back to his father. "What's on the agenda for today?"

"We scout the island," answered Bruce. "By the end of today, I'd like you to know it well enough to make me a map."

Damian let out a derisive little laugh. "How big is this island, again?"

"Nineteen by eight-point-two miles."

"I'll be ready for cartography before lunch," said Damian haughtily. "Surely you've something more challenging than that."

"We'll see."

Another good-humored chuckle, and then Damian said, "Well? Let's begin."

A few hours later, they were on the other side of the island, a small stretch of sand, another pile of fruit beside them. Damian was drawing lines in the sand with a stick.

"There are only two other significant stretches of sandy beach," he was explaining, pointing with the stick. "And there is a cluster of tide pools here, accompanied no doubt by a number of caves."

"That's correct," said Bruce mildly. "We'll get to those today."

Damian's eyes flashed with excitement. "Underwater caves?"

"Yes."

"Free-diving?"

"Yes."

"Do you know how deep?"

Bruce shrugged. "That depends on when we get to them. Tide goes out late this afternoon."

"Yes," said Damian, "but don't we want a challenge?"

"I don't want you to drown, if that's what you mean," replied Bruce. "Let's not test our luck."

"I'm an excellent free-diver," said Damian, and it was almost a protest.

"Regardless of how good you think you are," countered Bruce, "you're out of practice. We'll get to it later today."

"Fine," said Damian, running the stick along the sand, erasing his rudimentary map. "Then what's next?"

Bruce paused, then stood and headed out to the edge of the water. Damian hesitated, then followed him. "Do you see that rock?" asked Bruce, pointing to a vast jutting cliff. "It's said to be called Devil's Rock. Supposedly it looks like a human skull, with horns."

Damian squinted slightly, eyes narrowed partly in focus, and partly in suspicion. He said, "I see how one could make that inference. It looks like the highest point on the island."

"It is," said Bruce. "We're going to jump off of it."

Damian blinked, then looked to his father, unable to keep a little grin off his face. "Are you sure?" he asked jeeringly. "That looks quitedangerous."

"As long as you jump far enough," replied Bruce calmly, "you should avoid hitting the rocks at the base of the cliff."

For a moment, neither of them moved, then Damian headed back in, towards the bluff, calling back to his father, "What are we waiting for?"

It didn't take long to hike up the cliff, and although it was not as high as Damian thought it had looked, he could still only poorly conceal his glee, heading to the edge and peering down at the water, then removing his shoes and shirt, retreating back to his father. Bruce said, "I realize this looks like nothing but fun, but you need to remember that there isn't any room for mistakes here, as well-"

With a running start, Damian propelled himself forward and leapt off the cliff, silently launching himself feet first. Bruce called his son's name sharply, but by the time he reached the edge, Damian was already halfway down. He watched as Damian hit the water, disappearing over the deep blue surface.

For a moment, Bruce couldn't see him underneath the gentle swells, and panic seized his insides – but then, with a triumphant spray, Damian emerged, letting out a howling shout, then lying on his back in the water, floating, and laughing.

Bruce shook his head, and Damian called, "Are you coming?" Bruce made no reply, but a moment later he leapt off the cliff as well, and Damian laughed as his father hit the water, shooting down to the depths below, then emerged as well, with much less flourish than Damian had had. On his back, Damian kicked, propelling himself backwards, then said, "You have to keep this place. I'll bring the Titans here."

"You can have it," said Bruce.

Damian stopped swimming and looked at him, that unfamiliar grin on his face. "What?"

"The island," said Bruce. "It's yours. If you'd like it."

Damian let out an uncertain hum of laughter. "You don't have to bribe me," he began, but Bruce interrupted him.

"I have no other use for it," he said, shrugging as best he could, treading dense saltwater. "And you seem to like it much more than I anticipated."

Damian didn't reply to this, the smile still on his face, but his eyes were questioning.

Bruce added, "I don't think I've ever seen you laugh like this."

Rolling his eyes, Damian replied, "I've never even seen you laugh."

"That's not true."

"Might as well be," said Damian. He dived under the water, then emerged and said, "Watch this."

He dived again, and Bruce could see him heading out further, to where seabirds were circling, occasionally dipping down to skim a thin, scaly leg across the water. Damian lifted his head once barely above the surface of the water, then submerged until there was no sign of him. Bruce watched, narrowed eyes staring out carefully. A minute passed. Nearly two. A frigatebird skimmed along the mostly calm surface of the water, and in a flash of movement, Damian threw himself out of the water, clasping his arms around the bird's body; it let out a great cry, and Damian laughed victoriously. Bruce didn't move. After a moment of glory, Damian let go of the bird, and it struggled for a few moments, then flew off, away from the water.

Damian sunk below the waves, then poked his head out, breathing in deeply. "Damian," called Bruce. He looked around at his father. "I have another task for you."

"Yes?" answered Damian.

Bruce gestured towards the rocky cliff. "Rock climbing."

Damian looked up at Devil's Rock, then back at his father, and smirked. "Of course," he said, swimming over to the rocks at the bottom. "I'll race you."

"Hn," said Bruce, following him to the base of the cliff. "If you insist."

It took longer than they thought to reach the top of the cliff, but neither of them fell once. At the top, Damian lay down on the bare rock, and Bruce fetched more water from their packs and sat on the edge, staring out at the sea.

Neither of them spoke for a long time, basking in the sun on their skin and the warmth inside their cooling muscles.

Then Damian said, "I think that was the most satisfying thing I've ever done."

Bruce smiled out to sea. "So you are enjoying yourself."

Damian sat up slightly, palms pressed against the ground behind him. "I never pretended I wasn't," he said.

"You didn't seem so pleased last night."

A silence. Then Damian let out a defeated sigh, and lay back down. "Why must you ruin a perfectly good thing."

"I only want to talk-"

"Why?" asked Damian suddenly, aggression in his voice. "To what end? It's not as if we haven't been working together for years now. We know how to communicate perfectly fine, and just because Dick says-"

"This has nothing to do with anything Dick has said."

"-just because Dick thinks that you need to have these banal, agonizing conversations with me doesn't mean it's a good idea. Dick is an idiot."

A patient admonishment. "Damian, please."

"I value his partnership very much, but it's true, compared to you or me, he's an idiot."

"Compared to me or you, everyone is an idiot."

"Yes," said Damian, exasperation in his voice. "Finally you understand."

Bruce didn't reply right away, then said, "I don't see why you are so acutely averse to speaking about things that are important to you."

"I'm not averse to anything, I just firmly believe that what's mine is mine, and should be kept mine."

"It's not as if I'm asking you to surrender anything-"

"You are," said Damian adamantly. "You want to establish yourself as a voice of wisdom in a place of my life where I frankly don't think you belong. I don't mean this with malice, but how can you ask me to allow you into my time with the Titans – my time with Iris – when you hardly allow yourself time with me in Gotham?"

"What are you talking about?" asked Bruce. "I'm always with you in Gotham."

"No," said Damian. "You're always someplace else."

"If I'm gone, it's on League business-"

"I don't mean that," said Damian. "You may be there in body, but when I am Robin and when you are Batman, you know – you know – that you are never there, you never look at me, not the same way you do when you're not wearing the cowl. You know that."

The frustration in Damian's voice reached a crescendo, bordering on scorn, and he fell silent. Neither of them said anything.

And then Damian said, "I apologize. I only mean… I don't intend to be cruel."

Bruce didn't reply. And then he stood up and said, "Come on. I'll show you the caves now."

Cautiously, Damian got up as well. "I thought we were waiting for the tide to go out."

"It's out far enough," said Bruce. "Didn't you want a challenge?"

Bruce headed away, down through the sparse vegetation, and Damian hesitated, a surge of guilt rising deep in his chest, then followed his father.

They reached the tide pools in mid-afternoon, and the sun had not yet quite began to sink near to the horizon. The stopped there briefly, Damian peering at the different species, taking note of some of them, occasionally pointing out and briefly explaining the evolutionary function of a certain feature. Then, leaving their supplies on dry land, Bruce led his son to the rocky edge of the water. "I'm carrying oxygen," he said, holding up a small breathing device. "It's a large cavern, but it may be difficult to breathe in there. I'm not sure."

"Have you ever been down there before?" asked Damian, peering into the water.

"This is the first time I've even been on the island," answered Bruce. "But I wouldn't bring you here if I wasn't sure it was safe.

Contemptuously, Damian began, "I didn't mean-" but Bruce interrupted him.

"First we scout the entrance," he said. "Don't go in. We need to be clear on where we're going before we enter."

"Fine," said Damian, lowering the diving mask over his face. "I'll see you down there," he said, and he dived into the water, disappearing under the surface.

Bruce watched him go, but did not immediately follow. He looked out at the sea, and at the small crustaceans clinging to the sides of the rocks. He felt a sort of hollow coldness in his chest, and Damian's words rang over and over again in his ears, imprinted in his mind. He ignored them best he could and lowered his diving mask, then followed his son down into the water. When he reached the entrance to the cave, he looked around. Damian wasn't there.

Dammit. He went in. Without permission, without waiting, without caution – Bruce felt his stomach clench in anger and fear for his son, then he tucked the breather in between his teeth and swum to the entrance of the cave. Just as the light from the surface was beginning to disappear, Damian abruptly appeared, blocking Bruce's way, gesturing towards the surface. Bruce followed his movement, and in a few moments they were breathing air, keeping their heads above the water. Damian pulled the diving mask off his eyes, and Bruce followed suit.

"There's a body in there," said Damian bluntly.

"What?" asked Bruce, blinking at his son.

"Male," said Damian. "White, mid-forties, six foot, maybe two hundred pounds."

"Impossible," said Bruce. "There's no way a swimmer or diver could have made it all the way out here."

"I recognize him," said Damian.

"What?"

"I recognize him," Damian repeated. "Come."

Damian replaced the mask over his face and dived again; Bruce followed. He led Bruce through the entrance to the cave, to where it was nearly completely dark, and then the darkness was broken by illuminating beams of light spilling onto the water, and they resurfaced; the cave was not large, but it was by no means small, either. The light came from what seemed to be cracks in the rocks on what was likely the edge of the cliff, thin and piercing in the otherwise darkness, reflecting off the water with a mirror-like quality. There was an expanse of rock just above the waterline which Damian lifted himself onto, and there was a body lying there.

Bruce slipped onto the rock beside the corpse; it did not seem particularly bloated, as it would have been had the man drowned, but there were bruises around the neck, evidence, perhaps, of strangulation. There was an odd, pungent smell lingering in the cave, although it did not seem to come from the body. Without glancing up at Damian, Bruce asked, "You know this man?"

Damian nodded. "He was a teacher of mine," he said, his voice echoing off the stark rock of the cavern walls. "Under my mother. They called him Karność."

"Karność," Bruce repeated. "Is that Polish?"

Damian nodded again. "It means Discipline." They looked down at the body. "What is he doing here?"

"Clearly he wasn't diving," said Bruce. "I see no evidence of death by drowning."

"Right," said Damian. "Here." He pointed to the bruises on the neck. "He was murdered."

"Not only that," said Bruce, "but the tide's only been out for a short time. There's no way he's been here for more than an hour or so, or else he would have been swept away by the water."

"He's been dead longer than that," said Damian, touching the man's hand, testing his joints. "So his body was deliberately placed here."

"For us to find, I'm sure."

"Somebody knew we were coming down here," said Damian, delicately dropping the man's hand. "They must have heard us talking about it back on the beach."

"But there shouldn't be anyone else on the island," said Bruce thoughtfully. "It's deserted. I checked again right before we left."

Damian said, "He had a wife."

Bruce looked up at his son, something like pity in his eyes. "Damian…"

"I'm not being sentimental," said Damian, returning his father's gaze. "They were both my teachers. They were named for what they taught. Karność and Męka," he said grimly. "Discipline…and Pain."

Bruce didn't know what to say to this.

"They were always together," continued Damian. "Always. I'd wager either her body is here somewhere as well, meant for us to find – back where we set up camp is likely – or else she was his killer."

"Would she kill her husband?" asked Bruce.

Damian didn't look at him, only at the cold corpse before him. "She was a teacher," he said bitterly, "in the League of Assassins. There's no one she wouldn't kill."

There was a silence, and then Bruce said, "Let's go."

"Should we take him with us?"

"No," said Bruce. "I doubt there's anything more we can learn from him. Let the ocean take him."

Damian looked at the man one last time, then bowed his head in agreement. "All right," he said. "Let's leave."

They lowered their masks again and departed the cave, heading towards the open water, then climbing onto the rocky shore. "She might not even still be here," said Damian, as they climbed up across the tide pools, towards their supplies. "This might be nothing more than...I don't know. A warning. We could leave."

"No," said Bruce. "We can't. We don't have any means to contact anyone outside, and no way to get off the island."

Damian stared at him. "I thought you were kidding," he said brusquely. "I didn't realize you were actually stranding us."

"I thought you'd appreciate the challenge," said Bruce, as they reached where their supplies should be. He looked around. There was nothing there.

Damian swore, and Bruce said his name warningly. "Sorry," he said, kicking a rock out towards the pools moodily. "But now she's taken our water supply and-"

Bruce produced a still-full water bottle. Damian blinked at it, then suspiciously asked, "Where were you even keeping-"

Schink. A spray of darts and arrowheads shot through the air; both Bruce and Damian rolled away, taking cover under the low, dense underbrush. Bruce reached to pull Damian towards him, but Damian pushed him away, hissing, "It's her, let me take care of her."

"You're not armed."

Damian let out a derisive, "Tt," and produced three throwing stars and a small knife. "Father," he said. "I never go anywhere without my steel."

He slipped into the brush, away from Bruce; not a moment later, there was the distinct sound of steel clashing, a resounding thump, and then silence.

Damian stood up straight. "She's gone," he said.

Cautiously, Bruce rose as well. "Did you land a hit?"

"No," replied Damian, going to a tree, taking the hilt of his knife and yanking it from the sturdy trunk. "But neither did she." Bruce approached one of the darts she'd thrown, and Damian said, "Careful. Her toxin isn't meant to kill, but it incapacitates."

"How?"

Damian paused, watching the dart with wary eyes, then said, "Pain. It targets the hypothalamus, simulates extreme pain."

"It's a torture device."

Grimly, Damian nodded.

"We should get back to camp," said Bruce. "We have more supplies there."

"There's no reason to go back if she's already raided it," said Damian.

"I don't think she has. She's been following us the whole time. If we can beat her there-"

"Right," said Damian. "Let's go."

They headed back straight through the island, Damian leading, ferociously sprinting through the low vegetation, and Bruce following, keeping one eye behind them at all times. As they reached the edge of the beach, Damian abruptly stopped and called a near-panicked, "Father!" and Bruce pivoted, narrowly avoiding a dart full of poison.

A whining chuckle resounded, hardly audible above the sounds of the ocean and the gentle whirring of the organic matter surrounding them. Instinctively, Bruce and Damian drew closer to each other, backs together. "What do you suggest?" murmured Bruce to his son, eyes darting around them, searching.

Damian didn't answer immediately, then, fists raised, poised for attack, he called, "Is that the best you have, Męka? A murdered husband and a few shoddy arrows? Come now; you must know you taught me better than that."

Out of nowhere, a body was launched out of the few high trees above them, forcefully colliding with Bruce's body and wrapping legs around his shoulders, attempting to throw him to the ground; Damian took off running, abandoning his father for their small campsite, and Bruce managed to slam the woman attacking him to the ground, but she hit him hard in the face with the top of her head and wriggled out of his grip, following Damian. Bruce shouted his son's name as the woman pulled more darts and, snarling furiously, threw them precisely and violently at Damian, who stopped and then turned back at her, a smirk on his face. She hissed, "You are still just a student, boy," and advanced towards him, holding her weapons, and then with a sudden snapping sound and a puff of white sand, a hidden net appeared and closed around her, lifting her off of the ground. For a moment there was stunned silence, and then the woman let out a ferocious roaring and hissed, "A trap? How did you know-"

Damian shrugged; Bruce came coolly strolling down from the beach's edge. "We didn't," said Damian simply. "Force of habit." He reached out and quickly jabbed two fingers into her forehead through a square gap in the ropes, and she fell limp and still.

There was a moment of silence, and then Bruce said, "Well done."

Damian didn't reply. Then he suddenly fell to one knee, pressing a hand to his neck, baring his teeth in defiant discomfort. Cautiously but with a sense of urgency, Bruce went to his son, kneeling with him.

"Damian? Are you-"

He took his hand away from his neck, and it came away red with blood. It was a shallow cut, but then Damian grunted, "Poisoned. I'm OK."

Bruce already had a water bottle out, spraying it onto Damian's wound, but Damian bat him away.

"I said I'm fine," he said. "Not in any danger. Doesn't last any longer than twelve hours."

Bruce looked at his son for a moment, concern in his eyes, and then he reached down to tug one of Damian's arms around his shoulders and said, "You should lie down-"

They got to their feet, then Damian tore himself away from his father, stumbling slightly. "I can take care of myself," he said roughly, his eyes shining with yet-unacknowledged pain. He swayed unsteadily, then slowly limped over to where he had slept the night before; after a moment, Bruce took his son's arm as he walked, firmly providing support, and Damian did not object. Bruce released Damian, and the younger man sat down gingerly, his eyes closing in what could have been relief or denial.

Bruce sat down across from Damian, the remainders of their campfire in between them. Neither of them said anything, and then Bruce said, "You are far too fast to have been hit."

Damian's eyes flickered open, annoyed. "I made a mistake," he said. "Or perhaps I'm not as good as you think."

"You are," said Bruce, "absolutely as good as I think." He paused, then, his voice dropping to a rumble, imploringly: "Damian. You let yourself get hit."

For almost a minute, Damian said nothing. He was sitting cross-legged, eyes closed, neck outstretched, face held up to the sun. And then he replied, "I haven't experienced this toxin in years. Consider it an opportunity to test myself."

"This is a useless test," said Bruce. "Manufacturing an antidote would be a test, this is nothing more than self-destruction-"

"Męka," said Damian loudly, speaking over his father, "had one lesson, in all she was meant to teach me." He paused, taking a deep breath in through his nose. "Pain," he said, "is not real. It can be conquered within the confines of your own self. If you are the master of your mind, then you are the master of your pain."

Bruce said nothing.

Damian added, "Besides, I could tolerate no more pathetic pandering in the hopeful spirit of father-son bonding time."

There was silence. The sun sank below the horizon, and Bruce made a fire between them, then waded into the ocean to gather more fish, hanging them above the fire to cook.

The night was still and tropically warm, although heavy clouds obscured the stars in the distance, harkening a storm. Bruce hoped it could wait until they were finished on the island, hardly more than twenty-four hours away.

Damian let out no sounds, but he sat totally unmoving before the fire in the lotus position, eyes closed tightly shut, chest and muscles wound tight, sweat beading on his forehead. Despite his silence, his pain was almost palpable, and it was agonizing for Bruce to watch.

Bruce poked the fire with a stick and said, "It does seem like we find ourselves in bizarre situations, you and I. I'm sure nothing of this sort happens with Dick, or the Titans." He paused. "Or Miz West."

For the first time since the sun had set, Damian had a noise, a sort of humming grunt – but whether out of amusement or irritation, or perhaps mere pain, Bruce could not accurately tell. He didn't immediately reply, then he asked, "Cornering me in a moment of weakness. Dirty trick."

"No," countered Bruce. "Trying to take your mind off the pain. If you'd rather discuss Shakespeare, or organic biochemistry – if that would help you more – then I am entirely at your service."

Damian didn't say anything for another tense minute, but there was a sort of tugging at the corner of his lips. Then, suddenly, words burst forth from his mouth: "Please just call her Iris. Miz West is how I address her mother, and it's disconcerting."

Bruce paused. "You've met her mother?"

"Yes," answered Damian. "I've met her family several times. She invites me to their Sunday dinners."

"Sunday dinners?"

"Messy affairs. But pleasant."

"You should invite her to dine with us."

Damian actually let out a little snort of laughter. "I would rather be in this pain forever," he said, "than have to sit through dinner at the Manor with you and Iris West."

This cut Bruce, but he made no indication so.

Damian actually opened his eyes then, lowered his face, and allowed the straightness of his spine to curve forwards in a slouch. "What I mean," he said, sounding eager to clarify, "is that – she doesn't come from our life. She would be uncomfortable with our level of opulence."

"What does her father think?"

"He was cautious, at first," replied Damian. "More so than even you. But Dick spoke to him, as I understand." Damian fell silent. Then he added, "They are a good family."

"As are we. I would hope."

"We are a loose family. Strangers, compared to them."

An awkward pause.

Then Damian let out a sigh and hung his head, a twitching in his eyes due to the pain. "I am sorry," he said. "It seems as if I'm unable to say anything that doesn't wound you."

"No doubt something I've taught you."

"No," said Damian, and there was some note in his voice, something like annoyance, except tempered with no anger. "That's just a part of me. Don't say things like that."

A pause. "What sort of things should I say?"

"I don't know," replied Damian. "It bothers me that you have to ask that question. Dick would never ask me something like that."

"Dick would never ask that to anyone," replied Bruce patiently. "It's not in his nature to have to search for the right words."

Damian was silent, eyeing his father. And then, dismissing his father's comment, he lowered his voice and his gaze to stare into the fire, and said, "I just meant that her family has a sort of…togetherness that we lack. Because we are so often engaged in our own missions and battles. Her family, on the other hand, functions as a unit. Often I think their interdependence is a fault. Iris is far too dependent on her brother, and her father and mother – I just think that he's the Flash, Justice League veteran, he shouldn't rely so exclusively on his wife. If something happened to her, or even to his children, I can't imagine what he would do."

"Wally West," said Bruce, "would never let anything hurt his family."

"We all tell ourselves that. But-"

"Damian," interrupted Bruce, dipping his head slightly to catch his son's gaze. "I know Wally West. I know that he'd sacrifice the whole world in a second for the sake of his children."

Damian watched his father warily, not saying the words hanging in the air. _Would you?_

He let out a long, sighing breath, closing his eyes again.

Damian said, "I get defensive about her. To the point of hostility. I know."

Bruce said nothing.

"I understand that you're trying to fill the role of a normal father. I'm not actively trying to deny you that." An odd, reluctant little smile. "The circumstances just never seem to fall in place. Now, for instance. A painful toxin spreading through my veins, on a beach on a supposedly deserted island. Was this your idea of some privacy?"

Bruce didn't answer this either.

"I like Iris," said Damian, and it was more like a confession. "I like her very much. I like her more than, I think, I like anyone else that I know. I don't know if you want to know more about her, or to give me advice, or even ascertain how much of a potential threat she might be-"

"I wouldn't-"

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't," said Damian pointedly. "Closely monitoring our friends is how you express affection."

Bruce didn't object to that.

After another pause, Damian continued, "In any case, if there's something you'd like to say, something you'd like to know, I wish that we – you and I – were at a place where we could just say it. Do you understand? Dick spends his time with me telling me wildly inappropriate things, for which I constantly express my disapproval, and yet he and I – you know how I am with him."

Silence.

"I think this is about much more than Iris," added Damian.

Bruce didn't reply, and Damian said no more, obviously waiting for his father's response. After a hesitation far too long, Bruce said quietly, "I wish you wouldn't talk about Dick so much."

Damian's insides went slightly cold, twisting up in his chest. And then the chill melted and turned to heat, to a bubbling fire. "You don't have to be jealous of him," he said, angry now. "You don't have a right to be, he's done nothing wrong, except act like more of a parent than either of mine ever have."

Unlike anything Damian had yet said, this was said with intent to wound, and it did. It cut Bruce deeply, although he gave no indication that it did.

Bruce simply looked into the fire, and then he asked, "When did you tell him about Miss West?"

"Her name is Iris. And I didn't. Wally spoke to him."

"Who did you tell?"

"No one," said Damian. "Everyone we cared to tell already knew. This wasn't an act of exclusion. I don't feel it necessary to mention to you every time I'm interested in a member of the opposite sex, certainly you hold neither Dick nor Tim up to this scrutiny-"

Closing his eyes and bowing his head, Bruce let out a little sigh. The crackling of the fire seemed to increase in the silence as Damian broke off, watching his father, sweat on his face, his fists clenched tightly, trembling. In pain, they both told themselves.

Bruce glanced up at his son. "I didn't want for this to be an interrogation," he said. "Tell me I'm not delusional when I say that we've been getting better with each other. Tell me it's not the same way it was back when I first came back."

"It's not," said Damian pointedly. "I'm offended that you would think that. You are my father. At this point, I think we've both come to terms with that and are acting with it in mind, which is what I'm saying. You don't have to treat me like I'm new and fragile. You can speak to me, plainly."

"You don't make it exactly easy for me."

"I'm sixteen. What do you want from me? _Yes, Father, Titans weekends are secretly full of my girlfriend and I throwing wild, reckless sex parties, let me tell you all about my first kiss, may I please go to prom with her next week?_"

Instantly, a shadow flickered across Damian's face, as if he'd realized what he said, but that quickly faded into nothing more than a pronounced irritation. Bruce stared at his son for a second.

And then Bruce dropped his gaze again and, quietly, a little laugh escaped his lips, pressed together. He laughed, and then Damian's face broke slightly into a half-grin, and he let out a conceding chuckle. "I think I'm offended at your laughter," he said, his grin broadening, "depending on which part of that you found amusing."

"Let me guess," said Bruce. "All of this was really a convoluted ruse to get me to sign your permission slip for the Keystone High School prom?"

"No," replied Damian, with a half-laugh full of relief. "Iris is taught by her father and other speedsters, anyway. She doesn't even have such an event to which to invite me."

Bruce paused. "She is welcome to attend any of the formal events we attend. I'd like that."

"We were considering that," answered Damian. "I actually didn't think you'd approve. I'm not supposed to know her, officially, out of uniform."

"I don't think there's any way taking her to a social event could endanger either of you," said Bruce. "Tim has his charity ball next month. Please, feel free to invite her."

Damian looked at the fire between them, then up at his father. Cautiously, he said, "Thank you. She'll appreciate that. We talk sometimes about…going public. About our relationship."

Bruce didn't quite move, but he said, "So you two are very serious."

His eyes flickering away from his father, looking up at the stars above them, the jungle, the fire between them. He gave a strange, non-committal shrug, and then admitted, "Yes. We absolutely are. It frustrates me that so many of you react with disbelief. I am perfectly capable of committing to and maintaining a relationship."

A pause. "Are you sexually active?"

"Excuse me?"

"I want you to be healthy about it."

"Did you expect me to talk to you about this? I'm not going to talk to you about this."

"You're young. This is a conversation you need to have."

"Ugh. And you claim this has nothing to do with what Dick's said to you."

"Take this seriously."

"I do," said Damian. "I'm not like him. Or like you. I take it quite seriously, more so even than Iris does."

Bruce watched his son. "Yes," he said finally. "I would hope you wouldn't follow my example."

"Don't worry," said Damian scathingly. "I don't see the likelihood of a possible accidental impregnation very high. Unlike some, we're familiar with the functions of birth control."

The iciness in Damian's words seemed to go straight over Bruce's head, as his reaction was just to raise his eyebrows concernedly. "Familiar?" he echoed.

"I don't mean like that."

"You don't?"

Damian fell silent, his eyes narrowed. "I think Alfred would resent the fact that you're clearly under the impression I was never given a sexual health class."

"Were you?"

"Three years ago."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Did you learn anything useful?"

"We haven't done it yet," said Damian abruptly.

Bruce blinked at him. "Excuse me?"

Suddenly acutely self-conscious, Damian ran an irritated hand through his short hair and leaned back where he sat, away from the fire between them. "Iris and I," he said. "We're not…there yet."

For a moment, Bruce said nothing. And then, "Well. Dick gave me a different impression."

"I thought you didn't want to talk about Dick."

Bruce bowed his head. "I don't."

Damian shook his head. "Regardless, I know what kind of conversation you're trying to have here, and-"

"You don't want to have it? Weren't you the one who said you'd like me to just say it, if I had something to say?"

"You see," said Damian, "this is why we don't talk."

Bruce's eyes narrowed slightly, in something like confusion. "And why is that?"

"Because you don't talk to me," said Damian, his frustration plain in his voice. "You challenge me. It's infuriating. Everything with you is always about power-"

"What are you talking about?"

"-and control, and I don't want to play this game with you. It's too predictable."

Bruce watched him. "I don't know what you mean."

Damian looked out at the water, lapping against the sandy shore, then pulled away from the fire, lying down, putting his hands behind his head to look up at the moon. "Whatever," he said.

"Damian," said Bruce, feigning patience in his voice. "Damian. Talk to me."

"I'm tired."

"We're not done."

"I'm emotionally exhausted. There's only so much hand-holding I can do in one night."

"Damian."

"Father. What do you want?"

"I want you to show some respect."

"There," said Damian, and he leaned up on one elbow, pointing accusatorily across the fire with his other hand. "Right there. That's the difference between when I talk to you and everyone else. You give me all this space up until the point you want me to fulfill some fatherly obligation to provide you with filial validation. When you ask things of me, emotionally, it's a power play, Father, don't think I don't see that."

Bruce stared at him, shocked. "That's not true," he said.

Damian lay down again. "Yes it is," he murmured, turning away from his father. "Goodnight."

"Damian. Don't shut me down."

"You asked me what you should say to me. I'm trying to tell you."

"Tell me directly. I'm clearly not getting the message."

Damian shifted, facing away from the fire. He murmured, "Not this."

There was silence, then. Bruce didn't break it. He closed his eyes, grinding his jaw, upset and angry in an indefinable, burning capacity.

* * *

Part 2 coming soon.


	2. Macabre

The night passed. Bruce slept little. As soon as Damian fell asleep, his trembling became more pronounced, occasionally making small noises, no rest even in slumber. Dark thunderclouds rolled their way, and it was gray, misty early morning when Bruce awoke, jolted awake by drops of rain on his face.

He blinked, looking around, taking a deep breath and feeling a spike of panic in his chest as he did so. He crossed the smoldering fire and knelt beside his son instantly. "Damian," he said roughly, putting a firm hand on his son's shoulder, to wake him up.

Damian responded by deftly, instinctually jabbing his elbow up, below his father's jaw, but Bruce deflected it easily; blinking, Damian looked up at his father. "Sorry," he breathed. "What is it?"

"Are you hurt?" he asked. "Are you bleeding?"

"No," said Damian, sitting up, rubbing the drowsiness from his eyes. "What are you talking about? I'm-"

He stopped, sniffing the air.

"Męka," he said, and he was instantly on his feet, sprinting to where the woman who had attacked them was lying on the beach, bound around her wrists and ankles. Her head was tucked into her chest, facing away from them. Damian knelt down beside her, gently pulling her body back, only to reveal a muddy patch of black sand beneath her, dark grains mixed with blood. Her throat was slit.

Damian swore and let go of the body, pulling back in revulsion. Bruce knelt by her other side, inspecting the wound and the thick, mucky sand beneath the body. "There's someone else on the island," said Bruce lowly. "Someone with considerable skill; I can't find any evidence, any trace of a mistake here. It couldn't have been more than an hour ago."

"We were asleep," said Damian, sounding distraught. "We thought it was over. Why didn't they just kill us as well?"

"That's a good question," said Bruce. "Stay alert. We're not done yet."

There was a silence between them, and then Damian reached out and gently, bitterly, passed his hand across the woman's face, closing her eyes.

"We should bury her," said Damian. "When we can. I didn't know her or her husband in any meaningful capacity, but they were still my teachers. I owe them that dignity, at the very least."

Bruce watched his son. "Do you have any idea who might have done this?"

Damian didn't respect immediately. And then: "When they taught me…I was told they had a daughter. I never met her, but they assured me I would someday."

Bruce looked at him. "What was her name?"

Damian stared down at the woman before him, his hand hovering just above her body. "_Kostucha_," he said. "…Death."

They stayed close to the dying embers of the fire, leaving the woman's body far enough away that the stench of blood was carried away on the ocean breeze. They spoke in quiet, hushed tones; Damian related to his father everything he knew about this deadly family, which was not much. They said very little after that.

A cold wind swept from the water, bringing with it a sheet of rain, turning the low drizzling into a full storm. The final glow of the fire went out. Bruce and Damian did not glance at each other; they did not exchange glances.

It must have been morning, but the clouds were so heavy and black that they blotted out the sun. They were silent; Damian's jaw was clenched, every muscle in his body tensed. He scanned the beach, his eyes finally coming to rest on his father, visibility poor in the darkness and the heavy rain. A vein of blue-white lightning pulsed in the sky, lighting up the shore like day; Damian's eyes widened and as he instantly opened his mouth to shout, thunder clapped high above them, drowning out his urgent cry of alarm; although he could not hear Damian, Bruce spun around, dropping to a crouch, leg shooting out to catch the ankle of whoever it was approaching them. There, in the pouring, storming rain, was a young woman, with skin a pale, translucent white, like the peel of an onion, and hair so blonde it was practically ivory. The whites of her eyes seemed to pulse and glow in the darkness, and she moved so quickly, she was like a strike of lightning herself.

She easily avoided Bruce's blow and – impossibly, Damian thought – she struck the older man in the neck with her elbow, then brought a knee forcefully into his gut. So quick it was unbelievable, she flung him to the soft sand beneath them. Bruce's reflexes were perfect, but he seemed to be moving in slow motion compared to her.

The girl looked up at Damian, the shining whites of her eyes reflecting impossibly from nothing. She did not move for long enough to Bruce to recover and then-

She darted out towards Damian; he evaded her at first, watching the way she moved, her feet – bare, he saw – light and agile on the sand. It took only moments for him to understand that he could not match her, if this came down to speed; she was smaller, lighter, moved with more grace than he did.

Abruptly, instead of trying to dodge, Damian threw himself forward with all his might, trying to knock her off her feet; he collided with her body, but she was already half out from under him as they hit the sand. She hooked a leg around his neck, squeezing his throat, her other knee pressed firmly into his back. He made a defiant choking sound, his hands scratching at her skin, drawing blood.

Bruce leapt towards her; she slipped, as easily as the sun disappears behind the horizon, underneath him, wrenching Damian's leg unnaturally outwards as she did so, and then she was gone.

The rain pounded on. Damian let out more choking coughs, then pulled himself up to his hands and knees; peering around, searching for the girl, Bruce glanced down at Damian, then fell to a knee. "Son," he said. "Damian. Are you all right?"

Damian's cough transformed into a furious, primal shout. Like a wounded animal, more fearsome than ever, he screamed out at the beach – he attempted to stand, but Bruce held him down, saying his name.

"You're hurt," said Bruce. "Don't move."

Damian swung around to look at his father, fury and hate mingling in his eyes. When he saw the expression on Bruce's face, his anger faltered. Finally, he relented, sitting down on the sand, leg splayed out at an awkward angle. Rain plastered his dark hair to his forehead.

"I knew I should have built shelter," he said, loudly, to be heard over the storm.

"It's not broken," said Bruce, his hands on Damian's knee. "Can you walk?"

"Yes," replied Damian, annoyed. "Just help me up."

The rain bearing down on them, making the sand beneath them sink like mud, Bruce took strong hold of Damian's side and lifted him up. As he tried to put weight on his injured leg, he let out a howling scream, more out of anger and defiance than pain. Supporting his son heavily, Bruce guided them to the dense edge of the jungle; as they continued in, much of the rain seemed caught by the canopy above them. Bruce did not stop after a few minutes; he continued on determinedly, following some invisible path that Damian could not discern. At long last, he reached up and pulled down a huge palm frond, revealing what looked like the entrance to a cave. Once they were inside, sheltered from the rain, Bruce gently helped Damian sit down, then went further inside, as if searching for something.

"How did you know this was here?" asked Damian, clutching his knee.

"Reconnaissance before we arrived," replied Bruce; he retrieved two large duffel bags, weighed down with their contents, and placed them before Damian, opening them both. He glanced at Damian, something not quite like a smile on his face. "You didn't think I'd go in _completely_unprepared, did you?"

Damian took a small towel that his father offered, pressing it against his face, head, and neck. "No," he said. "You always cheat."

"That's right," said Bruce contentedly. "Your injury. Ruptured medial collateral ligament. You need a knee brace, at the very least."

"And," said Damian, watching as Bruce dug through one of the duffel bags, something like admiration in his voice, "naturally, you have one."

"What kind of father would I be," said Bruce, "if I wasn't prepared for every single different potential injury you could possibly face?"

Damian shook his head, but he no longer looked so unhappy. He took the brace, tugging it on to his leg, grunting slightly in pain when it pressed against the soreness in his knee. "When did you hide this here?" he asked. "You said you'd never been here before."

"I hadn't," replied Bruce. "That isn't to say I don't have friends gifted with the very valuable powers of superspeed and flight."

Damian watched his father for a moment, then let out an oddly sincere laugh. "You made_Superman_ place emergency supplies on a deserted island?" he asked sounding impressed. "On the _off-chance_ we might need them?"

"He was happy to oblige," replied Bruce, examining Damian's knee, adjusting the brace to the correct place. "He thinks very highly of father-son camping trips."

"That's because Chris is a Boy Scout," said Damian, shaking his head, grinning slightly.

"I believe he's an Eagle Scout now," said Bruce dryly. "Clark's very proud."

Damian let out a little laugh. In a conspiratorial tone, his voice lowered slightly, as if someone could hear them, he asked, sounding slightly in awe, "Do you _know_ how many merit badges he has?"

Glancing up, raising an eyebrow, Bruce asked, "Is that envy in your voice?"

"Shock and disgust, more like."

Bruce let out a rumbling chuckle. Damian watched him, something in his eyes like fascination. The other man went back to the duffel bag, removing a reinforced vest, light but strong enough to protect against low-caliber bullets. "Put this on," said Bruce.

"I don't need it," said Damian.

"I know," said Bruce. "But you're going to wear it anyway."

Damian watched his father for a moment, then took the vest. "You really think I'm going to be shot at?"

"No," replied Bruce. "But you don't get a say in this."

"What about you?"

"If, by some grotesque twist of fate," said Bruce, with an odd sort of sigh, "one of us has to die today-"

Rolling his eyes, Damian began, "_Father_-" but Bruce did not stop.

"-it's going to be me. Is that clear?"

Damian said nothing, only watched Bruce. "Fine," he said, pausing, choosing his words with care. "But if that bitch kills you," he said, "then I'm going to kill her. Is _that_ clear?"

Bruce went back to searching through the bags. "Fortunately," he murmured, "I don't think it will come to that."

There was more silence. Outside the cave, the storm raged. Father and son both donned thicker protective gear, mostly to shield from the elements, and then Bruce passed some food to Damian, who took it cautiously, then inspected it carefully. Turning the dry, brown strip over in his hands, he began, "You know I don't eat-"

"It's seitan," said Bruce, holding out the container to Damian. "No meat. I know."

Damian took the container, inspecting it suspiciously. Then, warily, he took a small bite.

There was silence between them.

And then, still slowly chewing the meatless jerky, Damian said soberly, "I didn't know she was so young."

Bruce glanced at his son.

"I didn't even believe she was _real_," continued Damian. "But she can't be older than I am."

"Maybe," said Bruce. "Appearances are deceptive."

Damian glanced at his father. "You don't agree?"

"She's clearly a metahuman of some kind," Bruce continued, analytically. "But I saw no indication that this was something either of her supposed parents was. Do you think so?"

"No," answered Damian. "But they could have been carriers."

"They could have been," answered Bruce. "But I doubt that she's related to them at all. She didn't move like a sixteen-year-old."

A short silence. Then Damian said: "You're saying she's better than me."

"She's older than you," said Bruce, with finality. "I can tell."

"How?"

"Because you don't have to identify with every young assassin you meet, Damian," said Bruce patiently. "That's why."

Damian's good humor seemed to evaporate. He jerked his gaze away from his father.

"You should get some sleep," said Bruce. "We should be safe here, for the time being." Damian said nothing. Bruce leaned over once more and held something out to him. "Take this," he said.

Damian regarded his father's outstretched hand with distaste. "What is it?"

"Pain reliever," replied Bruce. "It'll help with your knee."

For a moment, Damian didn't move. And then he took the pills from his father's hand, slipping them into his mouth, and leaned against the side of the cave, arms crossed, eyes closed, and allowed himself to, slowly, incrementally, drift to sleep.

It felt like mere seconds later that he awoke. He kept his eyes closed, sore all over his body. There was silence outside. The storm must have broken.

He felt unnaturally warm – not like there was a fire near him, but as if there were a body beside him, crowding him. Annoyed, he shifted slightly, prepared to push his father away – taking advantage of a moment of vulnerability to _snuggle_ seemed something Dick would do, not his father, but-

Damian opened his eyes, and even the breath froze in his lungs.

So close to his face that he could feel her exhalations on his skin, face pale enough that he could see delicate veins of blue beneath her eyes, the girl stood before him. Kostucha: _Death_, Damian thought, and it seemed impossible to deny. Her eyes were dull and empty, and she crouched before him, unnervingly still. He did not dare to break her gaze, to look around for his father.

The little girl – and Damian could see now that he had been right, and not only was she painfully young, but there was no way she was even as old as he was – looked at him with eyes like oily black droplets in pure shining white and then, faster than he could even blink, her fingers clamped around his jaw, tilting his face up from the chin, forcing him to peer down slightly to meet her gaze.

She opened her mouth, and her teeth were pointed, and her tongue was blood red.

Strong hands clenched down hard on his shoulders, and he was shaking, and – "Damian!_Damian!_"

He awoke with his heart racing, the pain in his knee shooting up his body. In that first moment of waking, he gasped and struggled against the body before him, holding him tightly, and then his vision cleared and his heart slowed as he saw the man kneeling protectively before him, an anxious look of concern on his face.

Damian inhaled deeply, the image of the girl seared into his mind.

"She's a child," he breathed. "She's just a child."

Bruce watched him, holding his son tightly by the shoulders until Damian's breathing evened. Then, cautiously, he let go. Quietly, he said, "You were crying out." The rain was still pouring outside; Damian heard another clap of thunder. "What did you see?"

For a breathless moment, Damian looked up at his father, then away. "Nothing," he said. "How long did I sleep?"

"A few hours," replied Bruce. "How's your leg?"

"Fine," lied Damian, staring at the entrance to the cave. "Has she found us?"

"It's more than likely," said Bruce. "But we're both still breathing, so there's reason to be optimistic."

Damian didn't answer this, which surprised Bruce, who thought the boy would respond with typical irritation.

"I'm going to find her," said Damian, laboriously getting to his feet. Bruce was instantly by his side.

"You're injured," he said. "We'll wait her out."

"No," said Damian resolutely. "She's out there by herself. She could be dead from exposure by now."

"I doubt that," said Bruce. "Both she and her mother were equipped better than we were. I understand that you don't want her meeting the same fate as her parents-" Damian glanced at his father, who added emphatically, "I do understand that, believe me. But there's no reason to believe she's in any danger."

Damian pushed his father away aggressively. "She's a _child_," he said again. "A _baby_."

"That's not true," said Bruce pointedly, but Damian batted him away again. Sharply, he said, "Damian. Don't make me restrain you."

"Father," said Damian, limping towards the cave's entrance. "You could always _try_."

There was a moment of non-movement; even Damian stopped, pausing slightly, as if to see if his father would take him up on his dare.

And then Bruce moved forward, swiftly but not deceptively, reaching out a hand to place on Damian's shoulder; Damian took that hand and twisted his father's arm, slamming him down onto the cave's hard floor.

Bruce did not immediately get up. Looking down at his father, Damian said, his voice hushed, "I'm not a _ten_-year-old anymore. I have everything you have taught me, and everything my mother did. Which means," he continued, as Bruce got to his feet, his face hard, "that I have been trained by the same people as this girl."

"You don't know that," said Bruce.

"Yes," said Damian. "I do." He stared into his father's eyes. "I know that look," he said, "in her eyes. It doesn't come from any metagene, nor from any supernatural power. Those were the eyes of someone who's never been taught anything but how to _harm_. How to _kill_."

He paused.

"I know those eyes," he said. "They used to be mine."

He turned and limped out towards the mouth of the cave, pulling away the huge palm fronds, and then-

It was like an animal, like being caught in the jaws of some kind of giant hound, dragging him away mercilessly, sucking him into the jungle as if dropped into the middle of the ocean, with no idea which direction was up or down. Breath was hard to catch, and the pain in his leg shot up and down his body, causing spasms down his calf and up his thigh, muscles locking tightly, painfully, so badly he was left gasping, wind knocked far away from his lungs.

And then he was let go, lying on the soft silt of the ground. He groaned in pain and disorientation, and tried to sit up; a sharp blow to the side of the head. Kick to the solar plexus, then a stomping on his ribcage. Anticipating the final blow, he reached up, almost as quickly as the girl had moved, and took firm hold of her foot, tiny in his hands. He pushed his hands forcefully up, knocking her off her balance, then put a hand on her thigh and threw her down, hard onto the ground, although the blow was muted slightly by the soft ground.

Instantly coming down on top of her, he pinned one of her legs underneath her body, catching one of her wrists with each of his hands. His body was still wracked with pain, but he dulled himself to it; Męka's poison was still not fully gone from his system, and he imagined he could feel it in his veins, and he recalled the only lesson she ever taught him. _Pain_, she had said, her words thick with her heavy accent, _exists only in the mind_.

As Damian fought every nerve in his body screaming in protest, struggling to keep the girl pinned to the ground, he thought that was total bullshit, and the only place his pain existed was all the way up and down his frame, in his bones and blood and skin and muscles. It wasn't that it didn't exist, but instead that it didn't matter; it couldn't matter, not in this moment, not when the girl's eyes were wide, baring her teeth at him.

Something in the back of his mind registered that her mouth was not crimson; her teeth were not pointed; her irises weren't even black, but a pale, see-through silvery-gray. She dug her fingernails into his wrists, drawing beads of blood, and finally tugged her leg out from underneath her. She thrust upwards with her hips, disrupting his balance on her body, and then she wrapped her legs around his neck, squeezing just hard enough that he loosened his grip on her hands; she raked down her face with long, narrow fingernails, then threw him down into the dirt, leaping away. His hand shot out, as lightning-quick as hers but dark and covered in mud, unlike her pale body, and he held onto her ankle. She turned back, her face bloodless with rage, and raised her other foot high to stomp on his face-

The loud _bang_ sounded despite the noise of the rain, and there was a sharp yelping sound, and then she was gone, disappeared into the black depths of the jungle.

Damian stared at the place where she had been, then wrenched around, clumsily getting to his feet. "What are you _doing?_" he hissed, livid.

Bruce held a firearm in one hand. "She's injured," he said. "She can't go far."

Damian seized the thing from his father's grip. "What is this?" he demanded.

"Nonlethal," Bruce replied coldly. "You should not have disobeyed me."

Ignoring his father's words, Damian threw the gun onto the ground. "That weapon," he growled, "is designed for adult males. _Thugs_. That _girl_," he gestured out at the forest at large, "is half_my_ weight, if that. You could have _killed_ her."

"No," said Bruce.

"Yes," said Damian, stomping hard on the weapon, pressing it into the wet ground.

"No," repeated Bruce. "It was loaded with a tranquilizer. A quarter dose from the usual. Even at her size, it couldn't keep her down for long, or do any serious damage."

The rain fell, dripping steadily down from the canopy above them. A sobering sense of self-consciousness pierced through Damian's anger, and he stepped off of the weapon.

"Regardless," he said. "We don't need it."

"You only say that because you weren't the one wielding it."

Damian didn't respond to this. He looked out at the jungle again. "She's still here," he said. "I can feel it."

"You're confused," said Bruce. "She took you by s-"

He let out a small breath, his hand instantly slapping to his neck; Damian looked at his father, alert and battle-ready, and Bruce produced a small dart from his neck. He held it in his palm, unspeaking for a moment.

And then, quietly, his eyes flickering up to Damian: "This," he said, "is what I just shot at her."

Damian's eyes widened, and he looked past his father, where the dart had come from; as if responding to some signal only visible to him, he shot through the trees, slowed considerably by his bad knee, but sprinting on it all the same, grimacing with the pain, nerves on fire, but unrelenting. He could still see her, though, white hair shining in the darkness – she moved slower too, he could tell, even with his hazy, sweat-filled vision. The tranquilizer had hit her, he realized, and she had wrenched it out of her skin to blow the needle into Bruce's neck – but she was slowing down, unsteady. It seemed that she was human, after all.

Rocketing through the dark jungle, wet organic matter squelching beneath his feet, the ground began to angle sharply upward, and it became an ascent; Damian was losing her now, he could see her gaining distance but he leg would not obey him and could not support him any longer; he fell, the dark mud clinging to his body, hands, and face, but – through the fog of pain, he could see his father continuing the pursuit, moving faster than Damian could – than the girl could, maybe, and Damian realized the ground below him was rockier than where he had been before, and he knew where they were climbing and that there would be no way to turn at the end of this stone outcrop, and suddenly an urgency rose within him, to get to the top, to catch her _now _before she reached it, because-

Ignoring the shooting, seizing agony in his leg, he pulled himself to his feet and moved forward, faster, focusing on the pounding of his blood to his injuries and back through his heart. He was catching up with his father, with speed and agility and endurance that should have been impossible, and never had he felt his body and self more intertwined with the girl's than when he reached the edge of the jungle and saw her body, brilliantly white even in the grayness of the storm, hover for just a moment above the top of the cliff at the peak of Devil's Rock, then fall, gracefully, almost as if floating, down to the black water below.

He heard his father's shout as she fell, and then the look of utter failure on his face. He stood, wind and rain whipping at his body at the edge of the rock, and said aloud, to Damian: "Dammit. She fell onto the rocks." He began to turn to look at his son. "There's no way she survi-"

But then his voice instantly became nothing more than a panicked shouting of his son's name as Damian threw himself off Devil's Rock, battered by the gales during his fall, then hit the icy water, crashing through it like concrete.

Bruce screamed his son's name, then scaled the side of the rock, dropping himself on the beach, wading out to the water at the base of the cliffs. His voice mingling with the unnatural, shrieking winds, he shouted for Damian, dipping beneath the waters, searching along the jagged rocks; he tore his hand open on a barnacle, black shell as sharp as steel and then, the breath in his lungs salty and dense like seawater, a small body, pale white in the dark sea, carried by the waves towards the shore. His heart frozen, the thought wildly ran through his head that if he found two corpses, then there would be three tonight, because he could vanish in this dark water, and there was nothing more he wanted to do in the world than breathe the ocean deep into his lungs, the ocean that had taken his son, his flesh-and-blood, away from him too young, too much, he has been stripped of too much in his life and what is one more life, especially, he thinks, when it is his own-

Dark arms grasp around the girl's white body, and a head emerges from the treacherous waters. Bruce's heart began to beat again, hard against his chest, as Damian spluttered and choked, eyes harder than Bruce had ever seen them, then began weakly swimming towards the shore, half his body no longer of any use.

When Damian saw his father, he did not acknowledge his presence, only allowed him to help, and together, they dragged the girl's tiny body onto the shore.

Bruce reached out to take hold of his son, relief pumping through his veins just as much as a rising fury for the boy's stupidity, but Damian threw him off, laying out the girl on her side, then to her back, on two knees beside her, two fingers below her chin and one hand on her forehead. He put his hands on top of each other and placed them directly on her chest, and began counting, grunting aloud.

Bruce watched him.

After fifteen compressions, Damian put his hands to her face again, lowered his mouth to hers, and forced breath into her lungs. He went back to her chest. Bruce said, "Damian."

Still dripping wet and hardly able to breathe himself, Damian only shook his head, eyes stinging with salt, welling up and spilling over. He put his mouth to hers again.

"Damian."

Bruce reached out, as if to take Damian's shoulders; Damian threw him off violently, hoarsely shouting, "_No!_" as he resumed chest compressions.

"_Stop_," said Bruce, physically taking hold of his son's arms; Damian struggled, and Bruce continued, louder, "Damian, _look at her_."

"No," screamed Damian, his whole body shaking, refusing to look at her pale, unmoving skin. Forcefully, Bruce took one of the boy's hands, and, despite Damian's weak fighting, he managed to press his son's fingers to just beneath the girl's jaw.

After a single moment, Damian stopped struggling. Bruce let him go. "Look," said Bruce heavily, gesturing to the girl's chest. "She's breathing."

Damian knelt before the girl, hands hovering helplessly above her. And then, exhaustion bleeding from him, draining him of every ounce of strength he still possessed, he collapsed across her body, and wept.

Bruce sat there, the chill of the ocean settling deep inside of him. He could think of so many reasons to be furious at his son, he could pinpoint every mistake the boy had made, every time he had disobeyed orders and every time he made a stupid decision, one that could have cost him his life and yet – Bruce did not speak. He did not move, except to, slowly, lift a strong hand, and place it on his son's back, in a silent gesture of unity and compassion.

They slept in the cave that night.

When Damian awoke, there was sunlight streaming in from the entrance, no longer obscured by vegetation.

Everything ached. He set it aside. He would deal with his pain in due time, but there were other matters.

He saw his father slept directly beside him. The position of his father's hand suggested he had fallen asleep holding his son protectively. Damian observed this dispassionately.

He looked around the cave.

A shadow fell across the entrance. He looked into the bright light, squinting against it. A pale white figure, like a ghost, stood there, watching him.

He did not move. He did not wake his father.

The girl met his gaze for a moment. There was something different about those eyes. She hesitated, and then, slowly, she bowed her head slightly, as if nodding at him. Then she disappeared.

Very carefully, Damian pulled away from his father, and headed into the sunlight. Although he could no longer see her, he instinctually knew where to go, and he limped slowly out to the beach where he and his father had made their first camp, the remains a fire beside the remains of a woman, already decaying in the wetness and warmth.

The girl knelt beside the woman for a moment, unmoving. And then, without glancing back towards the edge of the jungle, where Damian stood watching her warily, she headed into the ocean, diving underneath the waves. He watched her swim out to the huge, bare, rock, maybe a quarter mile out, and then disappear behind it. A moment later, he heard the telltale sounds of a motor engine revving, and then a small but powerful boat took off, appearing from behind the rock, and heading off, away from the island.

Damian watched her go.

It was a few moments later that he became aware that his father was behind him.

Bruce asked, "You let her go?"

Damian didn't respond to this immediately. He could think of nothing that would convince his father.

So he said: "Do you remember the day I told you not to give up on me, Father?"

Bruce looked at his son, but Damian did not return the gaze. "Yes."

Damian said nothing. Then: "Do you remember what I had done, just before?"

"Of course."

There was a silence. Damian watched a small boat in the distance, where the blue water met the blue sky.

He said quietly, "That was the day I started to live for myself. Not for Mother. Or you. Or Dick, or anyone. That was the first moment I saw who I was, and I did not flinch away from it. The first time I saw worth in myself, not just in relation to someone else."

Silence.

"There are too many children like me," he said, his voice hardly above a whisper.

Bruce did not say anything.

"We should bury her now," said Damian, his voice strong again. "Męka." He made his way onto the beach, towards the body. Calling back to his father, he said, "The woman was an evil, heinous creature, but she was a wife and a mother, and she had dignity of her own, and I must respect that." He glanced back at his father, a small smirk on his lips. "It's how I was raised."

They buried her on the beach near the edge of the jungle, where the dirt was harder and the walls of the shallow grave more solid. Damian dug some of it, but eventually claimed he was in too much pain to continue, and lounged on the beach while Bruce worked.

By the time the helicopter arrived to take them to the mainland, the sun was setting on the horizon, and the only indication that anyone had ever been there was a narrow rectangular patch of unearthed dirt, near where the white sand melted into dense, green foliage.


End file.
